


Eighteen Dead

by devante9901



Category: Original Work
Genre: Bittersweet, Bullying, Death penalty, F/M, Impossible romance, Love Hurts, Original Fiction, School Reunion, School Shootings, psychological fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2018-01-03 16:27:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1072655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devante9901/pseuds/devante9901
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <b>A killer is a killer is a killer – right?</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Landon Montgomery is a forensic psychologist at a state facility for the mentally ill and dangerous, so when Nathan Kincaid kills eighteen classmates at a reunion, Landon knows she'll soon be meeting him. But Landon's not out to save Nathan – her job is to declare him competent to stand trial and send him to the executioner. The only trouble is… there might be something about Nathan Kincaid worth saving.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eighteen Dead

**America's Poster Child**

Nathan Kincaid. All of America knows his name, as well as most of the developed world. His place in the hall of the world's great killers was certified and assured. At this moment, his life is a total waste. Anything good he ever did, or even had the potential to do, will never count.

I knew I'd get him. I was a forensic psychologist at the state facility for persons categorized as mentally ill and dangerous. Where else would they bring a mass murderer but directly to my door?

I had done my best to avoid the news reports, and more to the point, the rag-mag sensationalized journalism, but information slipped into my self-imposed bubble despite my best intentions.

The picture, for instance. It was the photo that the media latched onto as THE image of this particular killer, today's poster child for evil. His face was smeared with red, as if he'd wiped away blood spatters with his hands. His eyes were so blackened by soot that they looked like soulless holes in his head.

His mouth was smiling.

Maybe it was a scream, I comforted myself, or a grimace caught by the camera at a very inopportune moment. 

Then again, maybe it was the simple joy of revenge well played. 

I thought about how to start the session, how to establish rapport. He'd refused to see me, twice, but this time he didn't. I was nervous, the way I was always nervous when I had to start a difficult conversation. All conversations with Nathan Kincaid were sure to be difficult. He was a bad man who had done a terrible thing. And it was my job to coax him to discuss the details of this bad thing, to determine if he was a calculated murderer. It was my job to tell the court if he was competent.

**Session One**

Eighteen dead. Three critically wounded. Five treated and released.

_That's too bad._  
 _I wanted to kill every fucking last one of them._

Your life is over.

_I never had a life, so fuck it._

What did they ever do to you?

_Nope. The question should be what didn't they do? You have no fuckin' idea._  
 _I want the names of the dead._

I can't do that.

_Fine. I'll find out anyway._

I'm supposed to determine if you're competent to be held for trial.

_I am._

I'll be the judge of that.

_Fine. Judge away. I don't care if you want to waste your time._  
 _I have nothing better to do._

You don't believe you're mentally ill?

_Nope. I'm sane._

Should I be afraid of you?

What? No. You never did anything to me.

Oddly enough, I believe you.

_You should._

We'll meet in my office next time, no guards or cameras. But we still have time today. What should we talk about?

_How about them Dodgers?_

He smiled and the smile seemed to come easily, friendly and open, spreading slowly right up into his light hazel eyes. Right then I totally believed I had nothing to fear from him. 

I wondered if his ridiculous question was an attempt to take the focus away from what he had done. Or if it was a plea for me to get to know him better. His eyes when he smiled made me want to know him better. There was warmth in them, intelligence, good humor. 

I said: I don't know anything about the Dodgers.

_Okay. What do you know?_

He waited patiently for an answer, his eyes intense and staring into me, as if he were truly interested. I laughed a little because his steady gaze made me uncomfortable, and because I realized I wanted to say something interesting, but I didn't know what. Or more importantly, why. What did I really know anyway?

I said: I know about analyzing behavior patterns. I know about ferrets and writing.

_(laugh that seemed genuine) What do ferrets write?_

Ha-ha. You're funny. I didn't think you'd be funny.

_(shake of head, eyes sparkling) Nope, you're the funny one._  
 _(pause, he looks at his hands, then at me) What do you write?_

I felt hot all over and I knew blood was rushing into my cheeks. Why on earth had I said anything about writing? I knew better. Don't disclose personal stuff. To establish rapport, talk about pets, mothers-in-law, television, movies. Not writing. That's dangerously close to your real self.

I said: Ferrets are fascinating creatures.

_You don't want to answer._

No, I don't. Not today.

_It must mean something to you then, your writing._

It does. It's just too… (I didn't want to say inappropriate)… something. Too personal, I guess.

_Yet you're going to ask why I killed eighteen people and wounded eight._  
 _And why I'm not sorry._

(silence)

_You are going to ask. (it wasn't a question)_

(slow nod from me)

_(shrug)_

I let the silence stretch then. I was supposed to be in control of this interview. It was an illusion, but the video monitors and half-listening guards would never know the difference.

I said: Not today.

_Ultimately, though, that's your purpose here. To ferret out my reasoning._  
 _To judge me._

To judge whether you're competent for trial.

_I am._

We've already had this conversation.

_(smile) Yes._  
 _What's your deal with ferrets, anyway?_

I rescue them.

_And then come to work and rescue us. Nice._

Not always. Sometimes I find people are perfectly competent to stand trial.

_As you will with me._

Maybe. Time will tell.

_I can save you the time. I'm perfectly sane, rational, competent._  
 _What do you rescue ferrets from?_

Abuse, neglect, crappy lives.

_You won't be able to rescue me._

That's not my job.

_But it's your nature._

Could I argue that? Probably not. Certainly it's my nature to rescue the animals. The thought of them helpless and abused bruises my heart. But the animals I rescue haven't created their own miserable situations. The people I work with often do. There's a big difference.

I shrugged and said: I suppose.

_Ferrets are cool. I always wanted one._

They have unique and highly individualized personalities, third only to humans and chimpanzees, or so I've heard.

_Individualized, how?_

Just their likes and dislikes… quirks. Some of them will do anything for a raisin. For others it's chocolate or banana or dried cranberries. Some will only eat foods of a certain shape or color.

_Weird._

That's just the beginning. They covet and hide things – tennis balls, shoes, stuffed animals, a rolled up pair of socks. I had one tiny female that stashed a pile of black rubber bungee cords in my underwear drawer. The cords had been all tangled together in a small canvas bag and she worked them loose one by one. Persistent little devil. Clever.

_(light laugh) Sounds like me._

His eyes were still on me, serious, steady, and I realized with a start that I had forgotten for a moment what we were here for. He seemed to be waiting for me to say something, but I got lost in my head, my stern inner voice issuing an order not to forget that he'd very recently killed eighteen people, a number that could jump to twenty-one in a matter of hours. I wondered how I could forget the facts for a single instant and enjoy simple conversation. I looked back at him, letting the silence settle around us.

Did he look like a murderer?

I suppose so. He looked tough enough. I'd guess he was five eleven, maybe two-hundred-fifty pounds. His head was shaved. The skin I could see at his wrists and ankles was colored with tattoos. One tattoo crawled up his neck from his collar bone, under his ear, tracing behind his head – a snake or a dragon – I didn't want to stare long enough to determine what the designs were. I wanted to see more of them, have him tell me what they were and what they meant to him. Tattoo talk is a good way to build rapport with a new client. But not today. Not _this_ client. 

His eyes weren't the distant cold flat eyes of a killer. They were friendly eyes, and held lots of expression, quick to gleam, dancing with almost suppressed laughter as I looked him over. 

_Like what you see?_

You look like someone who could kill people, but you don't seem like someone who would. 

_Maybe we'll talk about that next time._

Are you suggesting we're done for today?

_(shrug) We've met and looked each other over. That's probably a good start._

Nathan Kincaid. Was he a sociopath? Could he have been in the midst of a psychotic episode and didn't know what he was doing? Depression with psychotic features? It was reported that his son had died within the past couple of years, some kind of childhood cancer – so maybe a delayed grief reaction? There were many possibilities.

He doesn't hide behind mental illness, for sure, the way he told me he is sane and competent – didn't seem to be attempting to play or manipulate me.

And yet he did, didn't he?

His charm was his utter lack of charm, perhaps. The lazy monotone, the admission of guilt. The moment of pure rage that flared for a brief second in the beginning of that first session, when the numbers weren't high enough for his satisfaction.

A disconcerting moment, that.

He wanted the names of the deceased. Maybe he would get them from someone else, but he wasn't getting them from me. The thought made my stomach twist, as if I could become part of the crime by identifying the victims for his pleasure.

He certainly seemed rational.

And lacking in remorse.

But how much can one learn from one short interview – the initial interview, no less, in which we looked each other over, took each other's measure, so to speak. How could I help him? 

How could I possibly help him?

If I stamped him competent, he would surely be tried and hung, lethally injected, whatever.

If I stamped him incompetent, there would be a series of court dates to ensure his incompetence, a series of doctors to diagnose his psychiatric deficiencies, a series of drugs that wouldn't undo what he had done. 

Either way, he loses.

They say he emptied a clip into a crowd of childhood friends. They say he dropped a live grenade at his own feet.

They say he never intended to survive.

And he – he says, _How 'bout them Dodgers?_

His eyes are intense and knowing, a flash of rage, a flash of humor. More than a hint of warmth.

I thought I could see the man he almost was. 

**Clinical notes:**  
Average to high intelligence  
Oriented to time, place, self, situation  
Awareness of own actions, without remorse  
Anti-social Personality Disorder (301.7, V71.01)  
Possible depression with psychotic features (309.3, 296.24)  
No obvious hallucinations or apparent response to internal stimuli

 **Session Two**

So. They say you aren't taking your meds.

_Which meds would those be?_

The ones prescribed by the doctor.

_Ah, so they say I'm not taking their meds._  
 _Who're they, anyway?_

Doctors… nurses. Notes in your chart.

_Their chart. Their perceived story of who I am._  
 _If I were diagnosed with something meds could cure, maybe I'd take them._  
 _But probably not._

Delusions of grandeur. Out of control. Depressed. Any of this sound familiar?

_I'm not depressed._  
 _I'm certainly not delusional._  
 _And I have never once been out of control since arriving here._  
 _I'm good. I even cooperate._

Do you?

_I'm here talking to you, aren't I?_

I have to wonder why. You don't seem to want to help yourself.

_I don't need help. And I don't need meds. I self-medicate. When I need to._

By smoking dope?

_Dope, crack, whatever. Mostly marijuana._

Okay. Why bother coming to talk to me at all?

_Something interesting to do._

You could talk to the psychiatrist.

_He's lame. I'm helping you. Making your report easier to write._

Nothing's easier than using my stamp that says "Uncooperative."

_(laughs) True. I guess I'll make you work for your verdict, then._

Gee, thanks. If it's just boredom that brings you here, you could always go to some groups.

_Fuck groups. Groups suck. Goal group, Medication group, Verbal group._

You might accidentally learn something about yourself.

_Fuck that. I know all about myself. I don't take their bullshit medications._  
 _And no one wants to hear me talk about why I'm here. Get real._

I want to talk about why you're here.

_Are you ready to talk about that?_

Are you?

_No._

All right. Are you chemically dependent?

_I don't know._

You don't know, or you don't want to talk about it?

_I don't know. I've never lived without getting high for any length of time._

Never?

_Never since I was about thirteen._

Wow. How often do you smoke?

_(smile) In here, never._

I mean out there, in the world.

_Every day._

But you don't know if you're chemically dependent?

_(shrug) Nope. It's just part of my life, like cigarettes are to smokers._

Nobody smokes pot like they smoke cigarettes, though.

_I do._

You're putting me on.

_No. Not really. I smoke a lot. More than once a day._

But you held the same job for ten years. You plotted and planned this whole mess.

_I'm not stupid. Do I look stupid?_

Not at all. But frankly I'm used to pot-heads being a bit… um… not motivated. Mentally slow.

_Not me. I'm quick._

So I see. Okay, I'll ask the obvious. Why do you get high all the time?

_My goal is to stay high. Holds back the rage._

What kind of rage?

_The kind that makes me shake and cry and black out and do shit._

That's intense.

_Yup._

Scary?

_Terrifying._

Afraid you'll hurt someone?

_I never would. But the stuff in my head, the images, they're not nice._

Not nice, how?

_Violent, gore-filled. I scare myself._

What do you do? How do you deal with it?

_(laughs) I get high, silly. Isn't that what we're talking about?_

Can't you deal with it another way, resolve it?

_I did. That's why we're here._

(stunned silence)

_Did you forget why we're here?_

Had I forgotten why we were having these talks? I had caught myself looking forward to this session, dressing carefully this morning, checking my hair, wearing a touch of make-up. Oh Jesus, what was wrong with me?

Do you have to work to restrain the rage?

_Every day._

Are you ever going to deal with it?

_I do. Every day._

Do you know the source?

_I was ostracized as a child. I didn't have any friends._  
 _Not one._

Something terrible shifted in me then. I instantly remembered our grade school class scapegoat and was pelted by a myriad of images of the different ways we tormented him. From name-calling to physically distancing ourselves, afraid it was "catchy."

I was the worst of them. My righteous taunting keeping him at the bottom of the pile, demanding the others follow my lead to remain in my good graces. And they did. I was powerful, assertive, and no one wanted to fall out of my favor.

I don't even know how long I stared at my hands, my feet, the floor, anywhere but at him. I was afraid if I looked up he would see it in me, the hard brittle core that had held no compassion for a kid just like him. An undeserving kid. Undeserving of such harsh treatment by his peers, I mean to say. 

I know why I was so awful. I was hiding an alcoholic mother and a father who hit her, who sometimes hit me. If anyone found out the mess of my home life I knew it would all be over and I would die of humiliation. So I worked very hard to keep the focus off of me. I piled all my own anger and hatred onto the "poor kid" in class – the kid who had no mother at all. 

And I know why no one stood up for him. They were terrified they'd get it, too, and they probably would have.

I wonder now if secretly I was jealous of him, because if he had no mother, then he had no risk of being humiliated by one. He got me instead, unlucky little bastard.  


Had I ever felt guilty about it? I wasn't sure. The truth was that I rarely thought about him. And by middle school, I was the popular bitchy girl, the one educators now call the Queen B, and I had a gaggle of followers who wore what I told them to wear, talked only to those I approved of, and focused their scorn on girls I perceived as threats to my status. The only boys I gave any attention to whatsoever were the ones I wanted to impress.

I was surprised to see him, our class pariah, at our ten year reunion. I had gone with a grade-school girlfriend I was still in touch with, and she said, "There's Ronny." I looked across the room, "Whoa! He grew up well. Cute even." He seemed to be alone, well, without a wife, at least, and he stood out from the crowd, tall and thin. I wondered why he would even come here.

If I were him, I'd never want to see any of us ever again. I mean, why face a whole group of people who made your childhood a living hell, day after day, year after year? 

A thought struck me now and a chill ran down my spine. Perhaps he had come thinking of revenge.

I had said hello to him briefly, polite and friendly, admired photos of his wife and children, my adult self having nothing to fear from him, nothing to hide from any of them.

I thought he might be the bravest person I have ever met.

I said: I think we're done for today.

Nathan's report of chemical use was difficult to believe. I found myself watching him for signs of delay, slowed mental functioning. Waiting, watching. He didn't have the dulled eyes or slack look of a chronic pot-smoker. Didn't exhibit the physical signs I've come to expect from the kind of substance abuse he was reporting.

Was it a mask? Perhaps he was trying to keep me from figuring him out. But then… why? What purpose would it serve him to manipulate the clinical data in this way?  


He said he blacked out from rage – but maybe he blacked out from drug use, and was going to build a defense of psychosis induced by chemical abuse, or psychosis of withdrawal. But again, to what purpose?

I gave myself a mental shake. He would never go free, never be released back into society.

No. He was fucked. By his own admission.

 **Clinical notes:**  
Not medication compliant (V15.81)  
Denies delusions, yet is somewhat grandiose  
Cannabis abuse, and/or dependence (305.20, 304.30)  
Unwilling to participate in therapeutic groups (V15.81)  
Rage disorder characterized by distorted thoughts, disturbing images

**Session Three**

What are you hoping to get out of your stay here?

_(snort of laughter) You're kidding, right?_

Well, it's a standard question, actually. You know, with a space on the computerized record for the answer.

_What's a standard answer?_

Reduction of depression. Improvement of coping skills. Medication adjustment.

_What do you want me to say? Fill it in with whatever answer you want._

It doesn't work that way.

_No shit. It probably doesn't work at all._  
 _Most systems are broken. That's the trouble._  
 _I shouldn't even be here. It's a total fluke that I'm here._

Why shouldn’t you be here?

_I had a grenade. You know that, right? I assume it was in the report._

What report would that be?

_Oh, come on. You got a report from somewhere, long before you ever met me._

Only because you refused to see me.

_Yeah, whatever. You admit there's a report._  
 _You probably had it in your hand before I arrived at this fine facility._

Of course there's a report. So. Tell me about the grenade. 

_There's nothing to tell. I had a grenade. When I ran out of bullets I pulled the pin._  
 _Dropped it right between my feet._  
 _Goodbye world._

You're still here.

_Not by choice. Some fucker tackled me, threw me halfway across the room._  
 _C'est la vie. Here I am. Still alive, for the moment._  
 _Enough about me. Tell me what you write._

I'm not comfortable talking about that.

_Tell me anyway._

(pause while I thought what to say) It's really not appropriate.

 

_Fuck appropriate. Are you kidding?_  
 _You want to know practically everything about me. Fair is fair._

Nathan, this isn't a two-way relationship. You know that.

_Maybe it would help more if it was._

Ouch.

He smiled, but it was a sad smile. His eyes were so intensely expressive, flashing bright when he laughed, darkening when disappointed. They were steady on me now, challenging.

_How about a deal? Tell me what you write._  
 _And next time, I'll tell you something hard._

Like what?

_Like why I hated them._

Damn him. Offering me exactly what I wanted. In exchange for what, my professional ethics? My soul? I sighed. He grinned. He'd sucked me in, and he knew it. He waited.

Romance.

_Oh, come on. You can do better than that. Explicit? Sweet? Religious? Bodice-ripper?_

He was laughing at me. I hated calling myself a romance writer, so I told him more than I should have.

Unusual or impossible romance. Guy in his thirties in love with a boy of eighteen. Vampire in love with a mortal who would rather die than ever drink blood. Nurse in love with a terminal cancer patient.

_Not happy stories._

No, my stories have plenty of charm, but they do lack the happy ending traditional to the genre. I like to explore complicated relationships. The more impossible the situation, the more fierce the passion. Bittersweet. The people you look back on and know they've changed you, whether for good or ill, and that the change is forever.

_Like our relationship._  
 _You're lying to yourself about the one-way part._

(shake of my head) Don't say that.

_(shrug) Imagine if we'd met somewhere else._  
 _I'd ask you out on a date. And you'd say yes._

(shake of my head again) Nathan. Don't.

_You want to care about me. Fix me, even._

But it's not possible.

_Exactly._

His eyes burned. Maybe not with tears, but with some kind of longing or regret. And then he held out his hand.

_Touch me._

(touch the hand of a killer) I can't. Nathan, I can't.

_Please._

His hand was out there, hanging in the air, and his eyes begged me. I stared at his hand. I remembered the photograph. The blood on his face. The eerie smile. His fingers trembled, just a little. And I couldn't stop myself. I reached out. My fingertips matched up to his, a millimeter of air between them. We stayed like that for a long minute. So close to touching. But I couldn't bring myself to close the hair's breadth of space between us. Couldn't touch the killer. My fingers burned with something like shame.  


My notes might dramatize the session, sure, but to hang on to my professional hat it had to be done. He wasn't delusional about possible outcomes, but he made me want to be. Delusional, that is.  


I wasn't delusional. I had a pretty strong inkling about how this would end. Still, he was a puzzle, and I was fascinated. I was willing to give up some personal information in order to solve the puzzle. And if that blurred boundaries, well, so be it. Or, in the words of a killer, C'est la vie.

 **Clinical notes:**  
Poor boundaries  
Continues suicidal and grandiose  
Past lethal suicide attempt (296.20)  
Delusions about possible outcomes of situation (296.24)

**Session Four**

Your turn. Tell me the worst of it.

_Do we have to do this?_

No. You don't have to do anything. Sit here and rot for all I give a shit. But we had a deal.

_You give a shit._

(Exaggerated shrug)

_It's embarrassing to tell. Humiliating. Even now._

Don't be embarrassed on my account. I know how this story ends, remember?

He winced. I wondered if that meant he was starting to feel some remorse. After all, everything he would now miss was certainly gone for the ones he killed, their families. If he went to trial as a sane person, he'd surely be executed. I couldn't even think about that. I liked him too much to think about that. 

By now, I knew that when I asked a tough question, he would answer. I just had to keep my mouth shut and wait. I think he needed time to put his thoughts in order, maybe distance himself some so he could tell it like a story.

_I was a normal little kid, you know? My parents cared about me. Loved me, even. I went to school in clean clothes. Not the newest, maybe, but fine._

_When it was time to go to Kindergarten I was so excited. I'd learn to read. By five years old, I was already longing to learn to read. I was a happy little guy, though it's hard to remember now. My family says I was happy, anyway. School was good. But in third grade there was this kid, Harry Morisi. Hairy Harry. Real dark kid._  
 _Italian or something. Had bushy eyebrows and black hair on his arms. Even in the third grade. He'd peed his chair in first grade, so for a couple of years he was getting all the heat._

_But one day he brought a bucket to school._

He described the scene in stark detail, for the first time ever in my presence fidgeting and pacing and talking with his hands; Hairy Harry gathering a large group of kids around and making a production of urinating in the bucket. Dropping his drawers, grunting and moaning and making exaggerated facial expressions while sitting on the bucket. 

When he was done Harry stood and examined the faces of the kids as he fastened his pants around his waist. Nathan stood just to the edge of the group, too horrified by Harry to even laugh, and somehow he became the chosen one. Harry's eyes landed on Nathan. Then Harry grinned, picked up the bucket and shouted, "Get Nate! Get him! We'll make him all nasty!"

Nathan turned to run, but was caught by a larger boy almost immediately and dragged to the ground. Three or four boys held him down while Harry poured the contents of the bucket over his crotch, chest, and face. 

"Nasty Nate, Nasty Nate, nasty nasty nasty Nate," they chanted, words that would ruin a little boy's life and haunt a grown man's sleep.

_After that I never had a chance. Nothing I did, said, or wore mattered._  
 _Didn't matter if I let them make me cry, if I laughed at them, if I ignored them._  
 _I was the pariah, the scapegoat. The smelly kid._  
 _I didn't have a single friend._

He finally stood completely still and stared at me long and serious, not even a hint of a smile. Then he sat back in his usual chair, once again calm, relaxed, at ease. I was horrified on his behalf. I wanted him to rage and cry and protest the unfairness of it all. But he exhibited… nothing. Just quiet stillness without emotion.

_It took me many years to determine it was them, not me._  
 _Until then I burned with self-hatred._  
 _I don't burn anymore. I just go cold._  
 _And I don't hate myself. I hate them._  
 _And I got mine, didn't I?_

Now he smiled. I didn't laugh good-naturedly with him, or even agree. How could I condone what he'd done, how he "got his?"

I said: But all that was a long time ago. You're asking me to believe that your anger reached across twenty years? That's beyond unforgiving. It's pathological.

_No. There's more to the story, of course there is. I moved on to middle school, then high school, graduated. I started college, but it wasn't for me. I didn't have the concentration for it. I found work with a contractor, eventually became an electrician's apprentice, then joined the National Guard._

I'd seen a note that his wife had been to visit. I mentioned it. 

_Yeah, I grew up and got married. Happily ever after, right?_  
 _She showed up here yesterday. Sat on a chair and cried._  
 _Couldn't even look me in the face._  
 _I told her to leave, to forget about me._  
 _We're divorced now, anyway._

I was at a loss for words. His pain when he spoke of his wife was so present, so raw, that it threw me, a huge contrast to the ice in his voice and his eyes when speaking about Hairy Harry and the horror in the school yard. Most people act out of hot emotions, crimes of passion and all of that. But not Nathan Kincaid. No. He was the master of revenge served cold. But I knew he wasn't telling me everything. Why would he wait twenty years to strike back? There were many precipitating factors, sure, but there had to be an inciting incident.

I said: So what, you got invited to a reunion? Was that the trigger?

He turned his glare on me, and it was so fierce I pressed my spine hard against the back of my chair, feet firmly on the floor, in case I should need to push back fast to get away from him. I wondered at the pain of his anger. Thought about the boy we tortured back in those early school years. Would Nathan hate me if he knew? Would he kill me with his bare hands, move so quick I'd never have a chance?

No. He just lashed out at me with words, from the safe distance of his chair.

_You fucking people. You want neat little explanations for everything. Let's wrap this story up with a nice little bow and feed it to the media. America's Poster child was grossly misunderstood and begs for mercy. You know, I wish, for your sake, that the world worked that way. Wouldn't that be a treat?_

He obviously wasn't ready to talk about the inciting incident. Or he took offense at my use of the word trigger.

I said: It's okay if you're not ready to talk about it.

_I'm done talking. I thought you were getting it, Landon, but you're just like the rest of them._

(use of my name – interesting) What do you mean?

_You want everything to make sense. You want me labeled and put in my box where I belong._

That's not true. You know what my role is.

_I told you I'm competent. I told you that a long time ago. If that's all you wanted, you'd be done with me by now._

I didn't answer. The silence between us grew. I thought about his words. Was he right, did I have an agenda that went beyond my job description? He was competent to stand trial. I had known that probably since the first session. So. I had no real reason to keep seeing him. I had put off writing my official report because it felt like our conversation was unfinished, but I hadn't put it off consciously.

It wasn't that I wanted to label him, or wanted to be sure the labels fit, or wanted him to fit neatly into a box.

When I discontinued our sessions and filed my report, I'd be signing his death warrant.

Releasing him to the broken system.

I said: You're wrong.

_(sigh) About what?_

About me. I don't want to make the pieces all neat and tidy.

_Then what the hell do you want?_

I just want to understand.

_It's the same difference, isn't it?_

(shake of my head) No. It's not about anyone else. It's about you.  
It's about me. It's become personal.

_(sharp laugh) Well, go make it personal with someone else._  
 _I'm a lost cause._

He walked out. End session.

 **Clinical notes:**  
Rejection by peers  
Labile moods (296.90)  
History of relationship failure  
Avoidant personality disorder (300.23)

 

**Session Five**

I want to understand why you've never moved beyond this.

_(shrug) I almost did, once._  
 _I had a child, and for a minute there I thought I was going to be okay._  
 _I thought I was going to be normal, even._

What happened?

_He died._

That's terrible. I'm sorry.

_Yeah. Don't apologize, it wasn't your fault._

How did he die?

_Long story. He got sick._

I waited, because I could tell there was more.

_Hairy Harry was his doctor._  
 _At the end._

(no words, I had no words) No way.

_I've never lied to you._  
 _I don't think he tried very hard to save my kid._

You don't really believe that.

_I'm serious. It's true._

I'd think he would have tried harder, to make it up to you.

_Yeah, right._  
 _Anyway. Then the kid was gone._  
 _Turned out his mother and I had nothing but him between us._  
 _I was alone again even before we called it quits._  
 _Maybe more alone than ever._  
 _Bad shit._  
 _She forced me into a treatment program._  
 _Worse shit to follow._

Like what? 

_Like everything. I'm no fun when I can't get high._  
 _Morose motherfucker. And I had reason to be._

Stewing in your head. 

_Totally. My head is no fun place to be._  
 _It's the loneliest place in the fuckin' world._

That's really sad. 

_Yup._

I love being in my head.

_I hate it._

But you've been doing all right here.

_That's what you think. You only see this little bit of me, here in your office._  
 _And I never feel alone with you._

That was maybe too intense, but a warm fuzzy feeling engulfed me and I buzzed with it for a second even though I knew somehow I needed to pull back emotionally. Not good. Oh, not good. Things had been building to this from the beginning. I looked forward to our sessions and hated for them to end, and noted that they often ran long – double our allotted time or more. In fact, I'd started scheduling him at the end of my day so we had no time constraints at all. I knew it was wrong, but I didn't stop myself.

If he got the death penalty, I would be devastated. 

Which was ridiculous – because there was nowhere this could go. 

I said: Even when you're angry with me? 

_None of it's your fault. I know that._  
 _You wanted to know what triggered this mess._

Yes. 

_Divorce decree came in the mail._  
 _My son is dead. My wife is no longer my wife._  
 _And there was this postcard._  
 _"Let's relive the happiness of childhood."_  
 _See? It wasn't your regular variety high school reunion._  
 _It was an extra deal, elementary school chums only._  
 _And I stared at it._  
 _And I read the words over and over._  
 _"Let's relive the happiness of childhood."_  
 _And I wondered which of them would be cruel enough to invite me to this party._

_Hairy Harry? Lisa Alvarez?_

_Maybe it was a whole committee: Anna Ruiz. Toby Johnson. Anthony Tyler. Cory Larson. Monica Martinelli. Thomas Anderson. Kim Caldwell. Kara Hayworth. Paulo Sanchez. Billy James Morgan. Karl Jackson. Damien DeMarcos. Lorrie Holmes. Tamica Jones. Michael Childs. Katie Moon._

It took me a minute to realize he was reciting the list of the dead. 

_There were others of course, but those are the ones that don't count anymore._  
 _(loud startling laugh)_  
 _Hairy Harry picked me up and threw me away from the grenade._  
 _Did any of the news hounds catch that?_  
 _So even in the end, he wins._  
 _That's it. That's all of it._  
 _We're done now. For real._

**End session: Nineteen Dead**

He asked me to see him at the last. I didn't want to because my heart was broken and seeing him would hurt. If I didn't see him, I could pretend we just went separate ways, lost touch, and I wouldn't have to face the reality of his dying. But he wouldn't let me off that easy.

When I entered the tiny visitor's chamber he smiled at me, oh, that smile, and he was beautiful to me despite the shackles, the stupid orange prison suit. I asked the guard to take the cuffs off him and step out. The guard was hesitant, but I used my powers as a confidential therapist to insist. 

So here we are. 

_Yes. Promise you won't cry._

I can't promise that. 

_Maybe I'll be reincarnated as a ferret. Watch for me. I'll be the evil one, and you can finally save me._

(smile, tears) I'll take good care of you. 

_Aw, don't cry. Everything is perfect. You rescued me._

No, I didn't. There is no rescue in this place. 

_You freed me then. I can see many possibilities different from the path I chose._  
 _I couldn't see them before._  
 _I accept my death only with great regret._

that smile, those warm eyes) How is that freedom? 

_If I died with all the bitterness of my life, I would die with nothing. I would have learned nothing. But I did learn, and I'm ready for whatever comes next. I wouldn't have learned it without you. I hope you know that when I call you my friend, it is an honor of the highest caliber._

I know.

_Thank you._

I stood because I had to get out of there before I completely fell apart. What was he to me but a client? How could he devastate me with both his life and his death? As he said 'thank you' he held out his hand. 

I took his hand in mine and realized with a shock it was the first time I'd ever touched him. For all the hours I had grieved his pain, the isolation of his life, I had never reached out to him with touch. Perhaps it was a horrible mistake. Perhaps it was wise. I cannot guess, even now.

 

As the flesh of our hands melded, he looked into my eyes. His were calm and sad for a moment, but then flashed with humor.

_I bet you never expected this, ever in your life._  
 _Maybe you'll start writing happy endings._

I realized tears were streaming down my cheeks. I couldn't speak. I could only shake my head. The pain was clawing at my chest, ripping through my breastbone, squeezing my heart and stopping my breath.

The lump in my throat was so large and painful there was no way I could talk. There wasn't anything to say, anyway. I wasn't coming back here again. I would not witness the end even if he asked me to.

He didn't ask. Thank God he didn't ask. What he did was pull gently on my hand, and I went gratefully into his arms, grief so strong in me that I could barely stay on my feet. 

He stroked my hair, _him_ comforting _me,_ for God's sake, and I inhaled the scent of him, nose buried in the neckline of his shirt, memorizing it, needing to memorize everything possible in this moment because it was the only one. 

I couldn't bear it. I couldn't. 

How can a person endure this kind of pain? 

* * * * * 

I lay awake until I knew it had to be over, and then I cried myself to sleep. I felt the void the moment I woke in the wee hours, and cried some more. 

I am strong. I only had to get through one day. Then another, and another; until the days were steps marching me further and further away from this moment. I wished I could have his peace, right now, and set down the heavy burden of grief that I would carry with me until time was far enough away to look back and find understanding. That was my hope; that someday, I would look back and know the purpose of this pain that arced like a bright brass bullet into my chest. 

_[End]_

**Author's Note:**

> Find more excerpts, stories, and novels by SM Johnson at http://smjbookteasers.blogspot.com


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